Elvis's Stained Glass Peacocks

That last summer, as we watchedfrom the armoire doors, he'dcome down on a balmy nightin darkness, his washed-upweight floating to the diningroom table. The chair, thinlike a woman, creaked tothe curve of his fatty back,the table stepped outto let him in.

Slowly he'd raise a shakinghand to the lavendertablecloth, then the other,the spark of rings, the ballooned pads,his Rolex ribbed like a worm.Palms up, for awhile,a mess of black creases.Then he'd flip them,dance fingers on the tabletop,two by two, the Virginia reel,or stroll across the promenade.Sometimes they'd stalk hissoaking ice cubes, likelonely roosters.Or kickbox, indexfingers only, the pinknails rubbed round as shells,a little sound of rams' horns.

Or once, he had them hug.Stuck together like cakes of soap, they alighted from the tabletoward the hullof the snuffed chandelier.Two hands began to sing.